


in the space between

by wit



Series: sidereal [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wit/pseuds/wit
Summary: Bittle talks about everything like they’re driving Route 66 down to Arizona and landing on a foreign planet is just a stop at Wendy’s for a Vanilla Frosty mid-roadtrip. Some days Jack can’t believe NASA ever let him out of the Solar System; other days, he thinks that maybe they did this so he’d nevercome back.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Series: sidereal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016023
Comments: 26
Kudos: 76





	1. PART A

**Author's Note:**

> this work is a very loose remix of Year 1. some lines may be adapted from there, and rightfully belong to ngozi.
> 
> it started as a self-indulgent sci-fi fix while i was struggling with another fic. obviously, it has sprouted legs and feet and plot and doubled in size since i first posted it on tumblr. enjoy what could alternatively be titled _Check Please But Completely Reimagined And Also In Space_.

> _FABER 15 AIR-TO-GROUND TRANSCRIPTIONS_
> 
> 00 00 00 34 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Just letting you know your trajectory is headed straight into Driucs, Zimmermann. Over.
> 
> 00 00 00 41 COMMANDER J. ZIMMERMANN
> 
> Roger. We copy that, Houston. Changing courses now. 
> 
> 00 00 00 48 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Get on that. Things aren’t looking good ahead. Over.
> 
> 00 00 00 55 SECOND PILOT B. KNIGHT
> 
> Can’t believe you don’t fucking trust this guy. He’s already tense as shit, Lards, you got nothin’ to worry about. 
> 
> 00 00 00 57 SECOND PILOT B. KNIGHT
> 
> Over.
> 
> 00 00 01 06 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Keep it clean on the coms, Faber 15. Administration is already on your case. Over.
> 
> 00 00 01 12 COMMANDER J. ZIMMERMANN
> 
> Roger. You’re welcome to come shut him up. Over.
> 
> 00 00 01 19 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Wish I could, Zimmermann. Change courses, now. Or I’m stealing a ship and coming to beat your ass. 
> 
> 00 00 01 22 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Off record, Houston. Delete from written transcriptions. 
> 
> 00 00 01 24 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Just get out of dodge, Faber 15. Over. 
> 
> 00 00 01 30 COMMANDER J. ZIMMERMANN
> 
> Roger. Trajectory adjusted, should be going around Driucs. Over.
> 
> 00 00 01 36 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> (Music: “It’s About Time”)

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


Driucs is a ball of hot pink mottled with orange from the sandstorms raging on its surface. Shitty thinks that it’s pretty, wants to screencap the ship’s monitors so he can ask Lardo for a painting of it later. Jack thinks that it’s an unnecessary hazard ringed with a dense asteroid belt, and that all he wants to do is bypass it as quickly as possible without colliding with a mass of solid carbon.

“Chillax,” Shitty says to this, kicking his feet up to the control panel. His toes are edging the radar display, and Jack grinds his teeth, shoves them off without bothering to argue about it once again. He’s so tense that he doesn’t even comment on Shitty’s choice of socks; galaxy printed with tiny marijuana leaves, _crisse_. “Everything will be A-OK. Always fucking is, Jacko.”

Jack wipes his brow with the back of his hand, shifts his hold on the control wheel and tries to focus on getting them through safely. “You know I hate it when you’re being cavalier.”

The door to the flight deck slides open, and someone exclaims, “Oh, what a view!”. Jack doesn’t need to turn his head; Bittle walks up between the two piloting seats, leans right on the center panel to gaze up at Driucs through the big windows. “It’s absolutely gorgeous, ain’t it? We should make a stop there.”

It’s what he always says. Jack specifically asked Holster to keep Bittle in the sleeping quarters until they’re out of the Merudan System because he’s got no patience for this right now. “It runs a hundred and two degrees, Bittle. We can’t _make a stop there_.”

Bittle talks about everything like they’re driving Route 66 down to Arizona and landing on a foreign planet is just a stop at Wendy’s for a Vanilla Frosty mid-roadtrip. Some days Jack can’t believe NASA ever let him out of the Solar System; other days, he thinks that maybe they did this so he’d never _come back_.

Bittle either doesn’t notice Jack’s impatient tone or, most likely, chooses to ignore it completely. “A hundred and two degrees is just another hot day in Georgia,” he huffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Goodness, it must stop being winter in Canada _sometimes_ , does it not?”

Shitty snorts. His feet are back on the panel again, scratching against each other absently. “I think he means a hundred and two degrees _Celsius_ , brah.”

Bittle pauses, hovers over Jack’s shoulder for a moment. And then says, “Oh. Well, that is rather warm, indeed.”

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


They picked Bittle up from a tiny space station right by Cleto, where they'd stopped for supplies. The order came from high up in Houston, and was very specific: Bittle was to join them on all ground missions until further notice, and was to lead all communication with nonhum species. They were provided with no background information or justification for expanding Jack’s crew, and Flight Director Hall hung up on Jack when he tried asking.

Bittle, the moment he stepped into the ship through airlock, pulled off his helmet to reveal a head of blonde hair and a radiant smile. His suit had pins of rainbows and bunnies on it next to the American flag, blatantly disobeying uniform regulations. He offered his hand for an enthusiastic handshake despite the bulky EV glove covering it -- without decontaminating first -- and Jack’s first thought was that all of it must be a joke. 

But it wasn’t. It’s been three months since orders came and no further notice was given. Instead, every day since has been filled with ceaseless chatter and pop music playing in the communal area and Bittle’s petulant morning complaints about intergalactic coffee being _just not the same_.

“You’re not even trying,” Shitty tells Jack nearly every night. He’s made a habit of crawling into Jack’s bunk since their first year on the same crew, gives bullshit excuses about how Jack keeps him warm in the cold, cold outer space. It’d be less troublesome if he at least bothered to put some clothes on to save Jack the uncomfortable conversations with Mission Control Center about workplace relations. “Do not motherfuckin’ lie to my face, Zimmermann -- you are _not_ trying, you didn’t try _once_ , Bittle is a tiny Southern bundle of delight and you’d like the shit out of him if you could get over your sorry ass and _try_.”

But Jack doesn’t want to try. Jack wants to get to his annual performance review and pass with spotless marks, which may as well not happen if Bittle insists on striking conversation with _every nonhum_ _race_ they encounter during the simplest of missions. Jack didn’t leave Earth to make friends, neither with crewmates nor alien species, and he certainly isn’t looking for friends who put his job at risk.

Shitty won’t stop pestering him about it, though, so Jack takes to pushing him out of the bed and shoving a pillow over his ears. It doesn’t make Shitty stop talking, but Jack is good at pretending to fall back asleep.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


Evor is five days’ flight past Dricus. Jack assembles a mission brief in the communal area the night before landing, gathers the boys around the large screens covering the rounded center of the ship. The screens are currently displaying all known information about the people of Evor, who are notoriously unfriendly and are especially inhospitable towards humans. There are reasons, Jack figures, but he never looked too deeply into it; he has no intention of contacting them at all.

“Mission goal is to extract soil samples from the mines on the mountainous side of the planet,” Jack says. The images on the screen behind him switch on voice command, are now a rotating photo of said mines. “It’s mostly unpopulated, so there shouldn’t be any run-ins with the locals. Mission estimated time is three hours on Earth clock.”

Ransom shoves his hand into the bag of chips balanced between Holster and him with a contemplating expression. “Sounds like child’s play. We all going in?”

“Yes,” Jack crosses his arms. He’s no doubt that any of the boys would like to stay behind and get a few extra hours of rest, but he doesn’t like taking unneeded risks. There’s strength in numbers, and he feels safer knowing that they have several eyes watching several backs out there. “Solid landing, no risk to the ship, no reason for anyone to stay here. Get your gear ready tonight.”

“Wait, Jack --” it’s Bittle. Of course it’s Bittle. Jack takes a deep breath and turns to him. He’s sitting in a single seat, legs crossed and hands clasped in his lap. “Listen, I’m not sure it’s such a great idea.” Jack’s scowl must be deeper than usual, because Bittle cringes and hurries to explain, “I mean, no offence to your -- mission planning, or. You’re usually great at that. I just mean, the Evor people don’t like strangers, and they sure as heck won’t like us, and they’re a people of warriors, you know, like, they make their money off lending their fighting skills to other armies --”

“Is there a point to this?” Jack cuts him off. It’s not that he doesn’t think Bittle means well, because he’s not blind: Bittle is made of nothing but good intentions and sunshine demeanor. His tendency to babble on and on simply isn’t welcome during mission briefs. Too time-consuming. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Bittle insists. He looks unhappy, a tiny furrow wrinkling at his forehead. “Going in with more than two or three men can be seen as a threat, and I just don’t think --”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jack interrupts, “because if all of you will follow orders there’s no reason for us to come across them or stay on the ground for long enough to be perceived as anything but transients. Leaving crewmates behind is a risk that we won’t be taking.”

“But --”

“End of story, Bittle,” Jack says, and it’s louder, meaner than it usually would be. He can see Shitty frowning at him from the corner of his eye, can see Holster glaring into his handful of chips. He gets that they feel overprotective of Bittle, being the smallest and the newest, but if Bittle wants to be part of the crew he’s got to either get with the program or quit. Jack can’t lower his professionalism standards just because Bittle might be _offended_. “Any more questions?”

There’s silence, so Jack adjourns the brief and turns away. He can hear, muttered from somewhere behind him, “ _Yeah, what crawled up your ass?”_. He chooses to ignore it and focus on turning off the screens, instead of giving it enough thought to start doubting himself.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


The worst thing is: Jack can’t figure out how the hell Bittle _got there_.

“I think he has a degree in like, sociology or something, man,” Holster told him a few weeks after Bittle had come aboard, while they were waiting outside the showers and listening to Bittle’s off-key rendition of a song that’d been in the radio maybe a decade before. “A master’s, I think, definitely no doctorate.”

Holster actually really liked Bittle, right off the bat; they all did, bar Jack, which just made the whole situation even more irritating. But they hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep that night and Bittle’s singing was _truly_ awful, so Holster was probably feeling less kind than usual.

“Shitty’s got four PhDs,” Jack said, banging his head back against the wall, abstractedly thinking that a concussion might make the singing stop. “Ransom’s getting his second one now. While _in space_. You don’t think it’s fucked that some undereducated humanities kid from nowhere, Georgia is going through the cosmos like he’s on a third grade school trip?”

Because Bittle was terrible at physics, and he paled visibly whenever someone started talking about biomechanics, and Jack had once caught him snoozing while Ransom had been fervently explaining the primary composition of Krer’s atmosphere. The most insulting part of it all, probably, was that NASA used to demand a STEM degree to even qualify for a program, and Bittle barely had a dubious understanding of _astronomy_ , while _traveling space_.

Of course, the moment the words were out of Jack’s mouth the singing stopped and the bathroom door slid open, Bittle standing behind it. He was wrapped in a towel, beads of water still lingering on his temple, dripping down his cheekbones. His face was red, blotchy, but the hard expression on his face made Jack think that the color wasn’t necessarily from the water temperature. 

“Excuse me,” he said, voice uncharacteristically cold. His shoulder knocked into Jack’s when he passed them, leaving behind a wet patch on Jack’s shirt. Bittle was small, and the door was adequately sized, and there were a good two meters between Holster and Jack, which left the obvious conclusion that it was most definitely on purpose. 

Holster followed his departure with bleary eyes, shifting the bundle of clothes in his hands guiltily. “I think he heard you, bro.”

Jack rubbed at the wet patch with his right hand. “No kidding,” he grunted, and couldn’t really find it in himself to care.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


Bittle seems wary from the moment they step foot on the jagged surface of Evor. Holster and Ransom force their way into the space by his sides, bracketing him like two towering bodyguards. They do their best at trying to get him to lighten up while climbing up to the mines; the crew figured out that they all played hockey at some point of high school, so Holster is animatedly explaining the rules of zero-G hockey, all of which he’s made up himself. 

“And sometimes we do full out matches when we meet other ships,” Ransom says, struggling with the unfamiliar gravity force to hoist himself up a big rock. “But a few months ago we were on Islikaru and there was this Russian crew, and this dude, Alexei, oh my _god_ \--”

A few small stones tumbling downhill bump into Jack’s boot, drawing his attention away from Ransom’s voice, and he mutes the coms to listen closely for any noises. There’s a rumbling coming from the other side of the mountain. It sounds like -- oncoming thunders, maybe, or a little like --

“Prepare for attack,” Jack turns the coms back on immediately, dives in front of Shitty to block the crew’s path up to the mines. Shitty stumbles, catches himself with one knee and both palms flat on the ground. “Abandon mission, now! Back to the ship!”

A dozen of Evor warriors descend from beyond the peak of the mountain, closing in on them faster than they can run. Jack’s crew doesn’t carry weapons. The Evor warriors are big, look like an odd mix of a gorilla and an elephant that’d be classified as some sort of reptile. _Ostie de tabarnak_ , Jack knows next to nothing about them, and definitely nothing about how to beat them in a fight three-on-one. 

“We’d never make it back on time!” Shitty yells, clambering to his feet and shoving the rest of the boys back down the mountain anyway. He’s right, but Jack has no backup plans and less than no time to come up with any. This was not supposed to happen, there was no reason for this to happen. They’ve been on Evor ten minutes, not even that.

Bittle jumps from between Holster and Ransom, scrambling up to reach Jack. He grabs Jack’s arm, face white and rapid breaths fogging up the visor. His expression is just as terrified as the rest of them, but Jack has never seen him this determined. It makes his feature look sharper, less angelic. “Let me go talk to them! Jack, let me --”

“ _What?”_ Jack rips his arm away, tries to shove Bittle back towards the ship as fast as he can. “Bittle, are you _insane_ , they’re coming to attack us --!”

“Because we seem like a threat!” Bittle yells. The volume of his voice catches Jack by surprise, gets him to stop racing down for a moment just long enough to remember that Bittle said the same thing at the previous night’s mission brief. That Bittle must be holding himself back from screaming, _I told you so, and now look where we are_. “Let me go _talk to them_ , I can explain the situation --”

“No! They’ll attack you before you get a word out --”

“They won’t! I understand their culture, the way they work -- Jack, you just -- you gotta let me try!”

“You’ll _die_ \--”

“Oh, Lord, we’re gonna die _either way,_ so what’ve you got to lose, Zimmermann? You gotta _trust me to have your back!_ ”

Jack stops. His breathing is loud in his ears, heart pounding. Shitty, Holster and Ransom are ten meters down the mountain, staring at Bittle and he wide-eyed, waiting for a decision. The Evor people are fast, and they look furious; they’re ninety or maybe a hundred meters away, and closing the gap with every second. Jack swallows, tramps down the panic rising in his throat. 

“Go,” he says finally, voice gravelly. “Go, Bittle.”

Bittle gives him one last wild look, and runs towards imminent death. 

  
  
  


.

  
  


> _FABER 15 CREW GROUND-TO-GROUND TRANSCRIPTIONS_
> 
> 00 00 02 04 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Faber 15, Faber 15, this is Houston. Over.
> 
> 00 00 02 06 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Faber 15, this is Houston. What is going on. Over.
> 
> 00 00 02 09 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Faber 15, this is Houston. Answer me. Over.
> 
> 00 00 02 11 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Goddamnit boys, what happened!
> 
> 00 00 02 14 COMMANDER J. ZIMMERMANN
> 
> Houston, this is Faber 15 returning to ship. Over.
> 
> 00 00 02 17 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Jesus Christ, Jack. Tell me what happened.
> 
> 00 00 02 21 SECOND PILOT B. KNIGHT
> 
> Jesus’ got nothing to do with this, Lardo. This was all Eric R. Bittle.
> 
> 00 00 02 25 COMMANDER J. ZIMMERMANN
> 
> Mission didn’t go as planned. Sending you a full report as soon as we’re back on board. Over.
> 
> 00 00 02 29 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Roger. Tell me everyone’s okay, Zimmermann. Over.
> 
> 00 00 02 34 SECOND PILOT B. KNIGHT
> 
> Alive and kickin’. Can’t get rid of us that easy. But seriously, tell whoever sent us Bittle that I’m getting them a fruit basket whenever I’m back on Earth. 
> 
> 00 00 02 38 CAPCOM L. DUAN
> 
> Roger. I’ll tell them to expect that. Get that report done ASAP, Zimmermann. And never do this to me again. Over.
> 
> 00 00 02 42 COMMANDER J. ZIMMERMANN
> 
> Roger, Houston. Out. 

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


The boys all separate into their quarters as soon as they’re back in the ship, their postures slumping and their hair damp with cold sweat. Jack stays behind, twists the airlock chamber shut. It feels like his entire body is heavier than usual, and it isn’t because of the ship’s gravity. 

When he looks up, he finds that Bittle’s still there; there’s an uncomfortable pause when they both hesitate by the passageway. Bittle’s back is turned to Jack, muscles tense beneath the dark fabric of his undershirt, but his head is tilted over his shoulder, searching for Jack’s eyes. His face is closed off, looks as blank as it can get. Jack’s hands clench into fists by his side and it makes the rubber of the gloves creak. He works his jaw as he tries to find the right words to say.

“That was --” he begins, and then swallows with difficulty. Bittle doesn’t turn to fully face him, only lifts his gaze until their eyes lock together. There’s spots of furious red high on his cheeks, his mouth pressed thin. Jack has no idea how to translate this information into any sort of social clue. “You. Euh. That was good, Bittle. Good work.”

Bittle’s mouth parts, his eyebrows knitting together, but his chin drops down so his expression is hidden from Jack’s view before he can try to read into it further. His right hand, leaning on the passage frame and keeping him in the mid-motion of leaving, tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Thanks, Commander,” Bittle says finally. His voice is steady, neutral. He’s still facing away. “Just doing my job.” 

He carries on walking away, then, like his pause in the passageway never occurred at all. The insulating door slides closed behind him, and Jack is left standing in his gear, staring at the white expanses of the walls. He has this sinking feeling that he made a critical misstep has no idea how to undo.


	2. PART B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric spent the first twenty-five years of his life with his feet planted firmly on the ground.

“Just a month till we’re home, boys,” Holster announces as he climbs into the bottom bunk across from Eric, addressing the dark room at large. Eric can hear him shift around in his bed, sheets rustling with his movements. “Can I get a hallelujah?”

“You can get _pizza_ ,” Ransom replies dreamily from the top bunk above him. “Because Holtzy -- _The Real fucking Pep God._ You and me, Matty Matheson pepperoni. One month.”

There’s one month left until landing back in Houston and disbanding for three weeks of leave. It’s been creeping up in conversations for weeks now, nestling itself in crew breakfasts and mission briefs and downtime. Shitty waxes poetry about things like dipping his toes into the ocean and breathing that sweet Terra air as often as he talks about smoking three joints at once the moment they set foot on the ground. Holster and Ransom talk about the heaps of food they’ll be shoveling to compensate for a year of outer space cuisine. Jack doesn’t talk about much other than the missions, and Eric thinks about organic chemistry and molecular modeling on good days, thinks about crying on bad ones. He talks about almost anything else to distract himself and hopes to Jesus that no one can tell.

The picture frame on the shelf by his bunk wobbles on its back stand as the ship tips into Krer orbit for the night. Krer itself is dim and murky, obscuring the shining lights of its neighboring planets and cloaking the crew quarters’ portal window in darkness. Jack said that the last mission of this tour should be coming in from Flight Director Hall sometime during the night.

Eric sighs quietly, turns onto his side, and stares blindly at the blank white of the wall as he mentally runs through the primary structure of proteins once more. Holster and Ransom are arguing about the best Toronto pizza in the background, the sound of their voices weaving in with the beeps of the ship’s machinery and the creaking noises of it when in motion.

“You gotta come too, Bittle,” Holster says, drawing Eric’s attention. He rolls his head to the other side, watches Holster’s blurred figure move in the dark to lean over the edge of his bunk. Eric must’ve missed a change of conversation. “Getting together over leave? We spend the last day before launch together, all of us. Y’know, hitting some bar, maybe watching a game, then catching the plane to Texas in the morning. Last time we went to Shitty’s -- man, that was fucking _wild sauce_.”

“And you gotta meet Lardo,” Ransom adds. “Crew bylaws. Sorry, rookie, everyone’s in.”

There are ten densely-printed pages about prokaryotes crumpled in the back of Eric’s personal locker, that he’s riffled through maybe twice. Eric chews his lip raw, tries to think of a carefully-masqueraded way of brushing the invitation off, but Holster grumbles lowly before he can. “Well, not _everyone_.”

“Right,” Ransom says, his enthusiastic tone turning slightly hesitant. “But. Us and Shitty and Lardo and probably her trainee Ford. It’s almost everyone.”

It’s almost everyone, plus ground team. “But not Jack,” Eric concludes, unintentionally dismayed. He should know better by now than to be disappointed, probably. He should, but doesn’t.

Holster sighs and throws himself back onto the mattress, bed springs groaning loudly. “Jack doesn’t really _do_ social things. He’s too cool for them. Which -- whatever, man, who cares, it’s probably more fun for us that way. So you in?”

What Eric’s in for is a world of trouble. Eric’s in for the sweltering heat of the Texan desert, he’s in for submerging in textbooks all the way up to his ears, he’s in for never being quite enough for this world. He turns his head back to the other side, facing the wall, and stifles a sigh.

“I’ll think about it,” he promises, and knows that he will, also knows he’d never be able to say yes. He doesn’t leave them enough time to round up on him before he adds, “Now shut your pieholes, gentlemen, some people need their beauty sleep. And by some people I do mean _y’all_.”

“Really, he means you,” Ransom tells Holster, and there’s the distinct sound of Holster reaching up and whacking the top bunk with a pillow. Eric buries his face in his sheets and tries to think distracting thoughts loudly enough to drown out the constant screeching noise of his worries. That, at least, is something he’s an expert at.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


Eric wishes he could say that he spent his entire life looking up to the stars. That would be a lie.

He spent most of his childhood looking at the ground, instead. At the toe picks beneath his feet; at the dough rising in the oven; at the floor of his school’s hallways, trying to avoid eye contact. The sky in Georgia was ordinarily clear, stars blinking in and out of view, but they’d never held much of Eric’s interest. He wouldn’t have known what to search for even if he’d tried.

Eric, aged eighteen, went to college mostly for the _going_ and less for _college._ New England was as much an escape as it was a destination. He liked some of his classes, didn’t like others -- remained undeclared for most of junior year, bouncing around between classes about food and culture. He put off doing his work for too long and preferred baking to writing essays too often, but it was fine, most of the time. His days were filled with more people than papers and he found that it was exactly the way he liked it.

College was the point Eric realized that, once he’d stopped being too afraid to try, he was really good with people.

“You could charm mountains into moving for you,” his sophomore year roommate told him, not without a hint of exasperation, when Eric fretted about meeting his first boyfriend’s parents. “Literally _everybody_ likes you.” 

And Eric laughed nervously, said, “Come on now, that is _certainly_ not true,” because he couldn’t charm thirteen year old bullies out of forcing him across the state, couldn’t make small-town Georgia like him for who he really was. Those seemed a lot like immovable mountains to him.

But people flocked to his vlog, kept telling him he was so charismatic, and his hockey team kept turning to him for advice with their problems, and in November of junior year he reviewed his credits, expecting to see every food class his college had to offer, but found _Populism_ and _Norms and Deviance_ and _Inequality and Social Change_ , instead.

He got his B.A. Got his master’s, too, not particularly fond of academia but not too keen on leaving the shelter it provided, either. He accepted an offer to work as a consultant for a big company right after grad school, spent a year expertly tailoring trade relations and marketing techniques to partners and customers from foreign cultures. He _understood_ people, liked people, and people, apparently, liked him. It wasn’t the job of his dreams but it was a decent start, and once the one year mark came and went he began considering PR work, maybe putting his people skills to a smaller-scale use. He was twenty-five and definitely not unhappy and his eyes were, always, firmly on the ground.

And then -- well. Then, one day, NASA called.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


Jack gathers the four of them outside the flight deck to inform them that their crew has been tasked with the last Human-Islik Intergalactic Treaty info exchange of the quarter, in time for the summit meeting at the end of August. He tells them Flight Director Hall is counting on them, tells them to wear clean suits, and when Holster and Ransom begin chanting _last mission, last mission, last mission_ , he sternly reminds them that being assigned to the Treaty IE is an honor. Still, when they all scatter and the two of them practically skip down the bridge, Eric thinks he sees the corners of Jack’s mouth twitch.

The mission takes four days, requires a series of security checks before entering each room and short transmissions to Houston for green lights at every step. Islikaru has the largest concentration of humans outside of Earth, but protocol must be followed nevertheless. Eric shakes hands, shakes paws, shakes tentacles, makes pleasant small talk and smiles brightly and lets Ransom ramble about science and Jack deal with bureaucracy. It feels at last like a familiar dance, and Eric tries not to think about how much he doesn’t ever want to stop dancing.

By dusk of the fourth day Shitty convinces Jack to wrap it up at a local eatery, the crew crowded around a small table in a pressurized O2 pod with their helmets thrown on the seats by their thighs. Eric finds himself squeezed between Jack on one side and Shitty on the other, a cool syrupy drink emitting translucent wisps of steam in his hand. Holster orders for all of them in rusty Isli that may or may not actually result in food, but they’re all just too jubilant to care.

“Alright boys,” Shitty hollers, banging his coaster on the table several times for effect. The glass containers holding all of their drinks jiggle with its force, creating a cheerful ringing sound. “A toast to this fucking beaut of a year. Being stuck in a cramped metal case floating in nothing for three hundred sixty-five days has been a great pleasure with your rockin’ bods for company. Fucking cheers!”

Ransom whoops, Shitty pretends to wipe a tear, Holster belts out the chorus of _Cheers_ ’ theme song passionately. Eric watches them, helplessly indulgent, and thinks: he’s actually making a home here. 

On his other side, Jack shoves one of the food baskets towards Eric with his knuckles and says, “You should try the octo-bacon, if you haven’t.” His eyes meet Eric’s for a brief moment, make Eric’s lungs expand in his chest. He can’t remember the last time Jack spoke to him for no good reason. 

Jack’s face is uniquely relaxed, his jaw convulsing as he fruitlessly tries not to laugh at something Shitty says, and Eric’s former thought continues, completely unbidden: _gracious, I’m going to miss these boys so much_. Their bickering and their worst habits and their dumbest moments. Holster’s booming voice, Ransom’s midnight thesis writing, Shitty’s insistence on nudity, Jack’s continual ability to confuse him. 

“Holy shit, man,” Ransom says, slamming his emptied drink onto the table and staring at its last drops in awe. “What the fuck _is_ this shit. I need another one ASAP.”

“Not it!” Holster calls, and then stretches his arm across the table, fingertip of his index finger pointed mere inches from Jack’s face. “But I just know our commander would _love_ to buy his best crew another round. Right, Zimmermann?”

“You’re my only crew, Birkholtz,” Jack rolls his eyes, mostly good-natured. Holster’s wiggling finger and Shitty’s foot kicking at his shin beneath the table must goad him into action anyway, because he puts his helmet back on, disappears out of the pod and towards the service counter without further protest. 

While Eric watches him go, Shitty slides closer in the booth and flings his arm around Eric, tugs him right into the crook of Shitty’s body. 

“This is it, Bittle,” he sighs, eyes closing dramatically. “Once this tour ends, you will no longer hold the title of _rookie_. Finally, you will graduate to the same titles everybody else gets -- mainly _bro_ , or _fucker_ , or, if I’m spectacularly schwasted, _yo, what’syourname_. This is a monumental day for all. You might even get a nickname. Are you appropriately emotional?”

Eric is emotional about many things. He can't stop thinking about this crew and what they've come to mean to him, can't stop hating keeping secrets, can't stop dreading the moment they cross back into Earth. Eric is emotional about the possibility of seeing his mama again, and what it'll mean if he does; Eric is emotional about life in general, right now, so he says, “Sure thing, Shitty,” and shoves a ring of octo-bacon into his mouth. It seems, for lack of a better option, like the smartest response.

From above Ransom’s head, Eric spots Jack reappearing just beyond the glassy walls of the pod, carrying a tray with four containers between both hands. He then keeps watching, helpless and open-mouthed, as another astronaut rises from a nearby booth and slams into Jack shoulder-first, tipping the entire tray sideways and nearly knocking its contents over and to the floor.

“Oh shit, sorry mate!” the man exclaims, immediately reaching out to catch Jack’s hands and help stable the tray. His Australian accent is thick, the ASA pin decorating the shoulder that knocked into Jack glinting under artificial lights. The two of them grab the tray with three hands, containers sliding back into place still intact, before the man’s eyes flick up and catch on Jack’s face. He then jerks back, his eyes widening and his hands yanked away from Jack like he’s afraid to catch on fire. “Fuck, Zimmermann! I didn’t see it was you! Fuck my life, uh -- here, I’ll pay for the drinks --”

Eric watches, crestfallen, as Jack’s previously relaxed expression gradually darkens back into his usual scowl, lips disappearing between his teeth. “It’s fine, don’t --”

The other astronaut shakes his head vehemently, shoving his gloved hand into his utility pocket and fishing out some local coins that he then throws onto the tray haphazardly.

“Fuck no, mate, I’m not taking risks with you,” he hurries backwards, flat palms raised up, like he’s under some kind of threat Eric can’t read in Jack’s distressed body language. “For real, it was an accident, don’t get your dad to kick me off the program, yeah?”

The man backs off, scurrying back to his pod and to his whispering crewmates. Jack remains standing, shoulders rigid and tray held in clenched white knuckles, vacant stare fixed on the floor. Eric glances away from Jack for the first time since he saw him approach and notices that his whole table is silent and tense. He catches Shitty’s furrowed eyebrows and Ransom’s worried look, and becomes slowly conscious of the fact that unlike him, everybody else already know what just went on in front of them. 

Jack’s mood seems to fracture, then. He steps through the pod’s sliding sealing and sets the tray down on the table too forcibly, glass containers knocking together. He doesn’t sit back down. Shitty parts his mouth to say something, but Jack latches his helmet closed before he can, muttering, “I’m done for tonight. I’ll see you guys back on the ship.” 

His face is almost blank, valiantly trying for imperviousness, but Eric has never seen him look so decidedly miserable before. Instinctively, he reaches out to grab Jack’s wrist; he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what just happened, but he does know that Jack shouldn’t leave like that. He manages to stammer out, “...Jack --” before Jack tears his hand away from Eric’s grip with the same excessive aggression that rattled the drinks, and says curtly, “Excuse me.”

Eric stares at his back stalking off until he's entirely out of view, feels unjustly hurt and primarily very confused.

  
  


.

  
  
  


Jack Zimmermann is --

 _Jack Zimmermann_ is one of NASA’s Arctic Project’s best pilots and ship commanders, Eric learned his first year in the program. He’s exceptionally committed to his job, loyal to his crew, unwaveringly focused on the mission. He’s direct, sometimes brutally so. He’s good at following orders, makes tough decisions under pressure, and never takes the opportunity to rub elbows with the higher ups. He just loves what he does, and does it notably well.

The name and the legend is a lot to live up to, but when Eric met Jack he realized that the man is exactly as he’s advertised. Jack, in the role of _Jack Zimmermann_ , is straightforwardly that: an amazing astronaut, an amazing ship commander, an amazing pilot.

It’s unfortunate, then, that Jack in the role of a human being is sometimes an enormous asshole.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


The ship’s lights are all off when the boys straggle themselves back on board later in the evening, their boots dragging sluggishly against gravity. When Jack left, the celebratory mood followed his footsteps out the door; no one seemed the least bit inclined to talk about it, so Eric didn’t ask. Though the four of them did their best to recover, cracking halfhearted jokes and staying for another couple of rounds, even Shitty’s mustache seems to droop lower than normal by the time they finally find their way back to the ship. 

Shitty passes airlock and walks straight towards the pilots’ quarters without saying a thing, so Eric wordlessly follows Holster and Ransom into their own quarters, brow still creased with puzzlement. He watches as Holster starts stripping by the door and Ransom sits down on the bottom bunk to take off his gear, and waits, and waits, until the silence is just too strange to handle.

“Alright, can anyone tell me what in the deep-fried hell was _that_?”

Holster glowers, rips off his support strap with gusto. He doesn’t answer, so Eric turns his frown at Ransom, who sighs as he removes the tough overshoe off his boots. “Ignore him, Bittle. Jack just gets real bitchy when people mention his dad. Which happens pretty often because, you now, _his dad_.”

“His dad…?” Eric prompts, desperate, because it seems like he should know something that he doesn’t. It’s not in the least a foreign feeling these days, when concerning space and science and always, always Jack.

Ransom looks up at him, one boot dangling from his left hand. “Yeah, you know, his dad. It’s a lot of pressure, living up to that. It’s probably most of why Jack is how Jack is.”

Eric doesn’t believe daddy issues are any excuse to be so surly, and he thinks, rather bitterly, that he would know something about the matter. But he pushes, still, because it’s always one step forward and three steps back with Jack, and any scrap of information making his commander seem a little more human could go a long way right now. Or even not human; Lord knows Eric can figure out nonhums just fine. “What does he have to live up to?”

Holster pauses peeling off the suit’s hard upper torso to squint incredulously at Eric. The lower torso assembly of the suit pools around his thighs. “You don’t know who _Mad Bob_ is?”

“Uh,” Eric deflates, taking a tentative step back, the crown of his head hitting the frame of the top bunk. The tone of conversation begins to sound a lot like the time he disclosed that he doesn’t really know the periodic table or has, at any point of time, known it at all. “No. I don’t.”

Ransom throws his other boot to the side and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and face contorting into an expression that closely mirrors Holster’s; surprised, scandalized, disbelieving. “He’s like -- _Mad Bob._ He was the first commander in the original Avalanche Project. He was the first pilot to leave the Solar System and come back alive?” 

“They say he was the first to meet extraterrestrial life!” Holster gestures grandly with his hand, yanking off the EV glove to have free use of the other hand as well. 

“That’s actually not true,” Ransom clarifies, “No nonhum races were recorded until almost a decade later --”

“Not the point, dude,” Holster waves him off. “The point is, Mad Bob is a legend. His ship nearly burned on the way back to Earth and he totally saved everyone on board. Made the first round trip, you know? He’s a big fucking deal. Can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”

Eric blanches, digs his nails into his skin to hold his instinctual reaction at bay. Eric spent the first twenty-five years of his life with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his eyes never straying upwards. Later, Eric spent every moment of his time at Houston scrambling to prove his worth in an environment so wholly alien to him that the irony in the metaphor was no longer funny. Eric wouldn’t be able to tell Neil Armstrong from Adam, just like Eric can never really remember the difference between Newton’s and Einstein's theories, doesn't know the primary structure of proteins even now. Eric doesn’t belong here, and he’s quickly running out of time to pretend like he does.

“Oh,” he says finally, weakly. Holster and Ransom haven’t looked away from him yet, so he averts his eyes, turns to face his bunk. “Must’ve just missed it somehow.”

He can almost hear Holster and Ransom hem and haw for a few long, silent moments, before the sound of nylon rustling resumes. Eric takes a deep breath, and does his very best not to regret ever asking. It’s made worse by the fact that this hasn't really helped him understand Jack any better than before.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  


So Jack had spent most of Eric’s first few months on the ship treating Eric like an inconvenience. That was okay -- it hadn’t been the first time he’d been perceived like that, and it wouldn’t be the last. He hadn’t been a fresh-faced teenager from the South in a long while; he’d been older, tougher. He’d been places and had met people, nicer people and smarter people and even meaner people than Jack Zimmermann. He hadn’t really needed a pat on the shoulder or an encouraging smile, just the opportunity to do his job, and do it well.

The real problem was that Eric had always been good at his job because he understood people. And Eric, despite his best begrudging efforts, cannot make sense of Jack.

Jack, who clearly had not understood Eric’s job at all until, suddenly and out of nowhere, there was Evor. Jack who, after Evor, told Eric _good work_ and sounded like maybe he even meant it. Jack who, after Evor, was sat by Eric when Lardo radioed to tell them that Jack’s report had made the deputy administrator call to congratulate Eric specifically. 

Jack who, also after Evor, stopped meeting Eric’s eyes unless absolutely necessary. Jack, who Eric sometimes caught staring from the corner of his eye, looking lost in thoughts. Jack, who roughhoused with Shitty in the flight deck, and arranged Holster a private DSN connection for his mom’s birthday, and listened to Charlie Rich on late night piloting shifts -- but whose glimpses of personality disappeared the moment Eric tried to study them for too long.

Missions transformed into something different in the aftermath of Evor. A month after the crew’s return to action they were sent to do testing on the magnetic field of Pladora, and Jack put Eric in charge of communication with the local scientists without preambles. Eric choked, floundered, but grabbed the opportunity with both hands; he still couldn’t shake the weight of Jack’s gaze on his shoulders whenever he spoke with the Pladoran team.

Later, Jack pulled him aside and asked, “Are you capable of confidently explaining to me the exact kind of testing we’re doing here?”, stared at Eric until he was fidgeting uncomfortably in place. “It’s important that you can do that,” he added, like Eric didn’t already _know_ , like Eric didn’t think about it every night before he fell asleep, like he needed Jack’s eyes on him for that, making the nape of his neck burn and his palms tingle with sweat. But Jack frowned at him, then, took a step back, like he didn’t understand why Eric was flushed with embarrassment. It almost seemed for a moment like he wasn’t actively gunning for humiliation.

And then it happened again. Two weeks after that they were helping ESA fix a satellite on a German space station, and Jack left Eric to discuss mission parameters unattended, but also ordered him to watch Shitty install a new GPS chip for three hours. During the strategy session for a recon mission in the Austra System, Jack insisted on hearing Eric’s opinion, but also accosted him after it to demand that Eric read about the complication with the wavelength disturbance. In a charged encounter with destitute merchants from a dead galaxy, Jack remained two steps behind Eric’s right shoulder and let him conciliate them, but when Eric later babbled about the civil turmoil caused by the demise of the galaxy, Jack asserted that he should understand the astrophysical process leading to such death.

So Eric generously thought: maybe Jack was trying, poorly. But three months after Evor the two of them returned to the ship frazzled and peeved, had spent most of the day wrangling with diplomats on Uzeru, and Eric scrubbed a hand over his face, resolved to try one more time. He offered Jack a friendly, tired smile, and said, “Wanna share bad coffee in the kitchen to drown our sorrows?”, but Jack only shook his head once, sharply, before immediately walking away.

The inability to make any sense of it consumes Eric's thoughts for much longer than he's comfortable with. Jack pushes and then pulls, hovers over Eric professionally but disappears the moment it’s interpersonal. A week before they're off for leave Eric looks up from his plate to see Jack taking his dinner into the flight deck, ignoring Shitty’s offer to join him, and thinks that maybe he can never peek past Jack's mask because Jack makes sure to turn away whenever it comes off. He thinks that maybe this is what loneliness looks like, thinks that he should still know better than to care, thinks for the first time that maybe Jack’s silent treatment is nothing more than not knowing what to say to Eric after Evor. Thinks that maybe Jack’s inept solution to not knowing what to say is to just say nothing at all.

  
  


.

  
  
  


The impact crater chipping Vylos’ surface is visible from two-hundred thousand miles out. It’s the nearest planet to the jumping point back to Earth, and its crater serves as a parking lot for all ships on their way to or from there. Its chaotic layout strongly reminds Eric of the QuikTrip station just north of Atlanta, but he bites his tongue and keeps that to himself. Jack and Shitty have probably never seen a QuikTrip, anyway.

Jack grumbles about finding a parking space on the night before leave, body curved over the control wheel and eyes squinted at the windowpane. Shitty leaves him to it, drapes his legs sideways on his armrest to tell Eric about the long claws of capitalism stretching into the cosmos, and how this has resulted in Vylosian beer being the best there is this side of the Milky Way, “Even though it’s like, totally not a real beer, dude, but -- marketing ploy!”, and how its atmosphere was chemically engineered, “To be breathable for all us Earthly suckers passing by ‘cause of the jump point. Filthy fucking marketing plot, I tell ya -- and the beer costs like my goddamn kidney.”

“Your goddamn kidney’s not worth much with the amount of Vylosian beer you regularly consume,” Jack interjects, lowering the ship into a vacant spot skillfully. Vylos’ terrain, reflected at Eric from the three surrounding windows in the flight deck, is grainy and blue.

The Vylosian bar Shitty buoyantly pushes them into is decorated in mismatched memorabilia, posters of Uma Thurman and Justin Bieber and a life-size stormtrooper suit personally signed by George Lucas looming by the wall. The AI pouring the drinks is a hologram in the shape of a Western saloon bartender, the beer is thick and neon green. Eric’s been outside the Kármán line for nearly a year and feels caught by surprise, still, almost daily; but tonight he gets to wear denim shorts instead of nylon spacesuits, gets to clink his glass against Ransom’s, gets to pretend that tomorrow isn’t possibly the end of it all. It has to be enough, he thinks, and takes a determined drink.

Their group starts out leaning against the wooden countertop, skin sticking to its surface. Later, Holster and Ransom chat their way into the table of two local girls, and Jack disappears from view. Eventually, their group winds up scattered across different corners of the bar, red-faced and loose. Eric catches himself repeatedly looking up from the bottom of his glass to the open door, at the pale glint of the sky just outside it, and after a thorough sweep around he takes his drink, gets up, and starts walking.  
  


. 

  
  
  


The bar overlooks the vast expanses of the crater sprawling beneath it, and Eric finds himself sitting outside at the edge of the cliff, thighs bare over the rough azure dirt and beer glass tilting in his hand. Vylos’ three moons are out of sync, rising and peaking and setting in a simultaneous cycle, and Eric is busy watching them when he hears heavy footsteps coming up behind him.

He’s surprised to find Jack standing there, suspended in motion with his hands deep in his pockets and his hair windswept, figure backlit by the lights of the bar twinkling behind him. He seems just as startled to see Eric; his expression wavers out of its usual stoic façade to betray some semblance of emoting.

“Oh, Bittle, I -- I thought you’re inside with the boys,” Jack blinks, a hint of a frown wrinkling his forehead. 

“No,” Eric blinks in turn, unsettled by this strange creature wearing the face of his commander. He looks so different in jeans and an AsCans training program t-shirt, out of the bulky spacesuits they spend most days in. “Uh -- no. I’m not.”

“Right.” Jack nods stiffly, glances at the ground and then at a spot somewhere over Eric’s shoulder. His body language is guarded, and he looks misplaced, painfully awkward. They still haven’t exchanged more than two or three sentences in private since Evor and Eric, typically the chatterbox, wouldn’t even know where to begin. “Well, uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll go.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Eric says, before he can think too carefully about why the heck he’d say such a thing. Before he can recall the snapshot memory of Jack turning to eat dinner in the flight deck, alone. “I mean. I’m just sitting here. Drinking alien beer,” he raises his glass, the bright green liquid sloshing around, leaving traces of neon on its rim. The ridiculousness of the situation may be slightly lost on Jack, but not on him. Space still is, and probably always will be, kind of weird.

“Right,” Jack repeats, the line of his back tightening and his eyes narrowing at Eric. “Be careful with that. Don’t want you to throw up during descent tomorrow.”

 _Dear Lord._ One step forward and three steps back. “Yes, Commander,” Eric sighs, swallowing the chagrin out of his voice. His shoulders sag as his body curls towards the view, away from Jack. God forbid Jack Zimmermann think about anything other than the mission for a single flippin' moment. Eric should know better than to be disappointed, but the sour churn of his stomach is unmistakable. Eric should, but doesn’t.

The footsteps behind him pick up again, and he expects to hear Jack walking farther and farther away. Instead, he’s shocked into silence by Jack sliding into his peripheral view, sitting down beside him on the cliff. His shoulders are rigid, his mouth pressed thin. His expression looks like he’s as bewildered as Eric by his own actions.

“Are you excited to go back?” Jack asks after a long, uncomfortable minute, during which they both sit mutely and watch the pits of Vylos before them. Its second moon has finished a full rotation and is now shining down in soft lilac beams. Jack’s voice is tense, flat; this boy, Eric thinks almost pityingly, really is terrible at small talk.

He’s been asked this question a dozen times that month, but mustering his practiced fake enthusiasm now seems hard. Maybe it’s the alien alcohol; maybe it’s that Jack could regress into not speaking to him again at any moment. “I guess so. Home sweet home, ‘m I right?”

Jack shrugs one shoulder, a short and angular movement. “It doesn't feel like going home to me,” he says, honest and plain. “I spend most of my time out here. It’s more like -- a summer vacation. Some people go to the Caribbean and we go visit Earth.”

Eric nods, absently, unsure of how to respond. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a long swig of it, tastes green all the way to the back of his throat. It’s almost impossible to imagine that in twenty-four hours he could be drinking locally-produced white wine in the Washington Corridor. Earth feels so darn far away.

“What’ll you do on your vacation, then?” Eric asks after another long stretch of silence, mostly out of politeness that his mother persistently lectured into him over years. 

Jack’s attention is fixed on the moons, his profile sculpted by the sharp lines of his nose and cheekbones and chin. His eyes are so pale under the lilac moon -- big, slanted, annoyingly beautiful. He remains quiet for a moment, leans his weight on his palms and considers Eric’s question. His gaze is still flickering over the view when he says, finally, “I usually go see my parents. Read. Buy groceries.”

Eric snorts inelegantly. If he didn’t know any better, didn’t know _Jack_ any better, that could almost be mistaken for a joke. “Buy groceries?”

“Yes,” Jack says, perfectly serious. His eyes flit over to meet Eric’s, and Eric holds them for only a moment before quickly looking away. His cheeks grow inexplicably warm. “I don’t really miss anything when I’m up here -- I mean, not really -- but I guess sometimes it’s nice to remember people. Stupid human stuff, eh? Supermarkets. Banks. I always think I'd catch a movie in the theatre but somehow I never do.”

He appears to be uncomfortable with his admission, face closing off once the words are out of his mouth. The sharp lines of his features twist back into a familiar scowl, but Eric watches them, him, thoroughly transfixed. The authentic snippet of personality cannot disappear under the reapplied mask this time; Jack has put something truthful on the table, a hint of something charmingly sentimental. A mundane humanity space can't recreate, newspapers and laundromats and coffee stands and taxes. Grocery shopping. Eric doesn’t know if the fast, erratic beating in his chest is at the sweet tinge of it, or the mere thought of Jack paying attention to such things.

“You should,” Eric finally finds his words somewhere in his strangled windpipe, slowly facing forward. _Jack, and his continual ability to confuse_. He can see Jack from the corner of his eye, turning his head to subtly raise both eyebrows at Eric. “Go to the movies. You should do it this time.”

“Yeah. Maybe I will,” Jack says after a long pause. “I'll tell you how it went when we’re back here.”

“If I come back,” Eric sighs before he can catch himself, and then freezes, fingers clenching around his glass. _Dang it._ _Dang it all to hell._

“What?” Jack asks, confused, and when Eric refuses to meet his eyes, shoulders squaring and chin dropping to his chest, Jack’s voice sharpens and he repeats, “ _What_? What do you mean? Bittle. What do you mean.”

Eric exhales unsteadily, rubbing his forehead with the back of his free hand. He thought he'd have more time. He thought -- like he always does, and is always wrong -- that he’d successfully outrun his problems by denying their existence. He could try shoving those four incriminating words back into his mouth, but Eric can feel Jack’s intense attention focused on the side of his face. Once Jack stepped back into the professional boots of Commander Zimmermann, no denial will make him let this go. 

“I’m spending all of my leave in Texas. I gotta pass evaluation for the clearance to come back here with y’all. These past six months were my test run -- I’ve never passed the written exam.” Eric drags his shoe through the sandy ground, watches as the grooves he makes are swept away. “Y’all know I’m no good at the sciency stuff, Jack, alright. I don't need to hear it from you as well. If I don't get an adequate score I'm off the program for good.”

Eric chews the inside of his cheek and chances a side glance. Jack looks outraged, his thick brows drawn down and his entire face devoid of color. Eric’s immediate reflex is to flinch away, but Jack speaks before he can make a move. “What subjects?”

“What?” Eric asks, thrown completely off-balance. He was expecting a thundering reprimand at worst, an indifferent dismissal at best. He doesn’t know what the quiet, heated response he's gotten even _is_. 

"What subjects are they testing you on?”

Eric hesitates, body still braced for the blow that isn't coming. “Uh. All of the introductory subjects. Basic physics, geobiology... mostly modern astronomy. But I _swear_ \--”

“Alright,” Jack cuts him off with a single sharp nod, his chin sticking out slightly, like Eric has somehow pushed him to make up his mind. His expression, typically impassive, is now staggeringly transparent. “I’ll help you study for the written exam.”

“ _What_?" Eric blinks several times, glances down to see if he's had more to drink than he thought, but the glass is still half-full and Jack's figure is still corporeal by his side, intense expression still in place. He doesn't fade away like the hallucination Eric is so sure he must be. "Jack -- what --?”

Jack doesn't seem to pick up on the astonishment that has Eric stumbling over his words. “We’ve got two and a half weeks, right? You need entry level stuff to pass that exam. If we study hard, you can do it.”

Eric thinks he might be gaping, his mouth hanging open and growing dry in the arid air, but he apparently isn't capable of collecting his jaw off of Vylos’ ground. “But… what… but you’ll be in Canada…?”

“I’ll stay in Huston,” Jack looks determined. “Bittle, we're a team. You should’ve told us before and we would’ve helped you. You’re a strong crew member, you’re smart, you’ve got an edge that none of us has got. If that’s the only thing holding you back we’re going to get you over it. Study clinic, day and night.” He pauses, the self-assurances faltering for only a moment, and the lines of his mouth soften somewhat. “Just trust me, okay?”

Eric is absolutely floored. The only foolish thing that manages to leave his mouth is, “What about going to the movies?”

Jack almost smiles. Eric has spied that expression on rare occasions before, but never directed at him, and never from up close. It does something to Jack's face that Eric can't put in words. “I’ll catch one on the next leave. Which you’ll be taking as well, ‘cause you’re not leaving the program. We've got each other's backs, Bittle.”

Under the moonlight, purple shadows carving his face from marble and a mellow half-smile twisting the corners of his mouth upwards, Eric could almost let himself admit how handsome Jack is. Jack rubs the dirt off of one palm and slowly curls his fingers, holds them up in a silent offer. Eric can see the thin veins beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at the hand, looks up at Jack, and lets a tentative smile blossom on his face. He brings his clenched hand up to meet Jack’s, and bumps his fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) NASA does not operate as shown. especially because we've not yet encountered any extraterrestrial life, so hiring sociologists is kinda a waste. in the event that people of such professions _would_ be necessary, i imagine they'd need to pass tests covering the 101 material of the STEM degrees currently required of all astronauts. also, army slang was incorporated because current NASA terminology doesn't fit the idea of long-term human space travel. for obvious reasons.
> 
> 2) "bittle. you need to learn more about proteins." -jack during eric's first month on the ship, probably [insert _bitch_u_did_not.gif_ here].
> 
> 3) apparently 'the space between us' is a romantic sci-fi movie about, you guessed it, space. this fic has nothing to do with the movie, despite the misleading title. that's what i get for going with the pun.


End file.
